The sound of my fist connecting with Adrian Duca’s jaw cracked through his Tribeca penthouse like a gunshot. His head snapped sideways.

At 9:00 AM on Tuesday morning, the 60th-floor grand boardroom of the Manhattan Commercial Consortium was convened for an emergency extraordinary assembly.

Sitting around the fifty-foot polished marble table were thirty of New York’s most powerful port directors, shipping tycoons, and crime family heads.

At the head of the table sat forty-five-year-old Dante Moretti, dressed in a custom Brioni suit, wearing a platinum diamond signet ring, smiling with triumphant, predatory confidence.

“Gentlemen,” Moretti announced, leaning back in his leather chair. “Given the tragic and unexpected passing of Adrian Duca in his penthouse last night, Moretti Logistics is prepared to assume immediate interim control of the Brooklyn commercial harbor terminals.”

The heavy mahogany double doors of the boardroom swung wide with a deafening crash.

Every single director and tycoon froze in absolute, breathless horror.

Walking down the center aisle, dressed in a bespoke midnight-navy three-piece suit, radiating untouchable, sovereign power, was Adrian Duca.

Beside him walked myself—wearing an elegant, tailored charcoal power suit, my hair styled with sharp precision, holding a sealed black federal evidence dossier.

Flanking us were Marcus Stone and eight armed Federal Marshals from the Strike Force.

Dante Moretti’s smile shattered. His crystal water glass slipped from his fingers, smashing across the marble table.